A Red Journey Indeed
by Coiler12
Summary: For Detective Fred Tally, it started as just another murder case. However, it ended up as a search for one of the most legendary and mysterious trainers of all time. Can he help find the great vanished trainer, the near-mythical Red?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

The structure in question was an apartment building in outer Rustboro, a fairly modest one that could use some touching up. Located in a peaceful residential neighborhood, it was, save for its unusual tenants, nothing out of the ordinary. Until of course, when the marshals got the warrant and charged in.

I, Detective J. Frederick Tally, was unlikely to go there. Contrary to a dozen bad TV shows, detective minds are far too valuable to risk going in. That's what you have police-ok-ok, that's what you have the League Marshals for. The local police are totally worthless except for collecting tolls-in both the literal and figurative sense-, and maybe directing traffic away from road closings. Maybe. I would probably go there after the dust settled in some form-whether they were arrested, killed, or escaped. But the entire Hoenn Provincial Police was on high alert, and marshals were being flown in from other regions. We kind of had to keep up appearances, so instead of watching what was happening at home via my scanner, I was, with most of the other detectives, sitting in the Slateport station.

The marshals had blockaded off the area, with their barricades stretching for blocks. An outer layer was handled by the local police. In a nearby vacant lot was a command vehicle, and dozens of other cars in varying states of size and armament. One of the armored cars swiveled its turret back and forth, while another took occasional potshots at the building.

The terror of the last attempted attack was seen whenever cameras passed over the building. Two dead marshals and at least seven Growlithes lay in front of the building. On an upper balcony, propped against the wall, was an occupant, a man wearing some kind of full-face helmet.

"Dunno what they're doing now. I think they're debating whether to use the paras or trainers for the next attempt." Someone next to me said it.

Sure enough, I could see both a ton of paramarshals there, all in their distinctive uniforms, and I could see more League trainers, along with Roxanne herself, the local leader, here and there. There was an argument between her and one of the paramarshal officers, and I could see why.

Granted, since Slateport doesn't have a gym, I didn't know the mentality of leaders. What I did know was the mentality of paramarshals. See, the League has countless levels of counterbalancing forces to prevent any one figure from getting too strong. But they needed an advanced strike force regardless, so they ended up with the paramarshals-don't ask me whether this stands for "paramilitary" or "paratroop", although they do jump from aircraft a lot. Now, these paramarshals are great when it comes to immediate threat elimination-but that's all they know how to do, because no one wants a sustained maneuver force. So, their operations are either extensively preplanned or done in the wilderness, where they can just blast away in a well-known sweep. No doubt they were planning an attack as I watched, but even the possibility of them acting quickly was discomforting. So they'd probably-

"Ok, it's the trainers. Definitely the trainers." Some of the well-worn League trainers had put on armor and were releasing their Pokemon. I counted two Rhyhorns at the front of the formation, and at least one Bellossom.

_Bellossom throws a chem attack on the building, Rhyhorns act as a shield. Either that or the Bellossom's there to stop the Rhyhorns. _

The Rhyhorns lumbered forward, the trainers and Bellossom ducking by them. Already I could see muzzle flashes from inside the building, and the beasts wincing slightly. Then it happened, though somewhat sanitized from the low-light camera. One trainer failed to duck properly and collapsed immediately-then another. Someone ordered the Bellossom forward, and it tossed a swarm of sharp leaves at the building-although it did so with the pose of an arena Pokemon, not a practical one. This meant no cover-and a predictable end.

The trainers were not panicking, and the Rhyhorns charged. As they neared the building, high pressure water hoses joined in the volleys of return fire. One of them stumbled, then roared in pain as the water seeped into its body. Another held its ground and smashed into the building, making a solid hole in the wall and entering, but even through the camera I could see the hoses shifting to it. The poor creature was bound to meet the fate of its companion, behind which the rest of the League trainers were hiding.

At that point, an assistant arrived. "Phone, homicide, report."

I immediately moved to get it. I thought that maybe, after seeing this very weird crisis, I could get a break by looking at an unrelated crime. Even if it's a skeleton found in the middle of nowhere. Even if it's a drunk stabbed by another drunk and the only witness is yet another drunk. Even if it's a contest bookie dying under circumstances that scream "The perpetrator has connections." Those I knew how to deal with.

As it turned out, it was a contest bookie. Fortunately, this did not seem like a connections-related case. More like Slateport Bookie Murder Scenario #83200. Underdog wins contest, bookie wins big haul because everyone bet on the favorite. Someone sees this, takes a mask and a weapon, follows the bookie, shoots the bookie, grabs the money, and leaves.

The questioning was a little awkward given that there was footage of the renewed standoff at the Rustboro apartment building, and I had to take the handful of witnesses and relatives around the crowd. All I got about the suspect was "The guy had a mask", and contradictory claims as to what type of body he had. Yeah, this case was not going to go forward unless we got a confession or lucky break.

After a few hours of questioning, I could finally go home to a well-deserved sleep. There was still the possibility of me being woken up, but that seemed unlikely-the situation at the building was reverting to a tense encounter, but not a hostile one.

When I went back to my own dinky little home, the housekeeper poured me some water and asked if I could tell her who the people in that building were. I knew the people in there were some sort of weird trainer cult that hadn't been paying the property tax, but that didn't justify a raid-just the tax department taking their assets. I said even the local chief didn't know what was up, then went to sleep.

The next morning, a deal had been worked out. Any resident who wished to leave would face trial on a lesser charge only. Only a few actually did. Once it became clear that the remaining dwellers would stay and fight, the paramarshals attacked with their usual force. I later learned that, as usual, they'd wanted to keep waiting, but Roxanne pushed them into attacking before the next day. Final death toll: Two League trainers, three marshals, a paramarshal in the final attack, a Rhyhorn and Bellossum, and at least fifteen of the apartment residents. .

Afterwards, I got the story. The residents were illegally stockpiling weapons and planning an expedition into the wilderness to try and find legendary trainers-some to find and follow, and others to hunt. The League found out about this, but didn't know of the weapons, so they sent their marshals in unprepared. There was of course, little coordination, but that's a feature of the system. Better lose two trainers to a bungle than lose a lot more in a civil war, so it goes.

A few days later I got the next murder-and I thought it was fairly easy. A pair of fangirls got in an argument that turned fatal. I didn't think this was going to be more important than Dead Bookie #8,244,680. As it turned out, it was. Oh, how it was.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

Lynn Fremont, a young woman of a mixed complexion, lay awkwardly. Most of her was on the floor, but her legs still stayed on the chair she had been sitting in when she was killed. Three bullet holes were in her, combined with several more marks in the floor and wall.

There were about ten other people who heard what happened, and their stories all matched, as well as many more who saw the suspect fleeing. Two fangirls had gotten into an argument over which great trainer was better. Sounds good. One of them, Shelly Raines, then killed the other with her brother's quite illegal handgun. The weapon itself was nowhere to be found, unsurprising given how frequently they're tossed away.

This would either be a knockout or a flyer. Knockouts are the domestic stabbing in front of three horrified family members and two housekeepers. Flyers are like knockouts, except the suspect gets away since the provincial police agencies do not have the best track record in working together. Hoenn wasn't quite as bad for flyers as the areas that were connected-biker gangs who zip between regions faster than the police can respond are legendary, but since Slateport has a transportation advantage, the department has had to deal with more than a few flyers.

I barely noticed the League marshalls coming to the apartment several hours after I did. Figured this was a bit of overreaction after the Rustboro incident, and that they were checking any fanatical trainer followers. A check on their files revealed that both Fremont, Lynn Nisanci and Raines, Shelly Georgia, had their share of disorderly conduct arrests. Worst prior for Raines was one count of misdemeanor assault with a weapon. She had confessed to the assault but the weapon had not been found.

Then it was time to write the report. _Fremont viewed Asma Saqqaf, two-time Unova champion, as her idol. Raines viewed Red Tenner, the legendary Kanto champion, as hers. The two got in repeated fights over who had more character, who would win in a battle, and others. _Then a message to Raines' family-we'll charge her with manslaughter and weapons charges but not murder if she turns herself in.

At lunch was Sam Hoang, one of the best detectives in the provincial police. "I got two clearances thanks to the League", he said with a smile.

"How?"

"They're kinda scurrying everywhere looking for crazy trainer fans, so I got them to install a mic on this vacant lot where I know a ton of vagrants hang out-oh, don't worry, I got a warrant, all above board-let the defense lawyers handle the rest. Got two bragging, solved two murders, one a three-year old cold case I'd left to its fate. Those idiots."

"How'd you get them to do that shit? I mean, I know the League doesn't care about anything that doesn't involve trainers, and it really doesn't care about run-of-the-mill Slateport crime."

"Well, here's the justification. They're looking for conspiracy gangs hunting trainers. And one of the victims was technically a trainer since he caught one Zigzagoon. Look, the important thing is that I have the clearance now-ok."

"Just don't blame me if the paramarshals kick down your door", I said jokingly.

Sam's face lit up even more. "Oh, the paras knew. This isn't some sort of conspiracy, Fred. Everyone's desperate for something, even if it's a pair of dock bums. Better that than chasing rumors for days and days with nothing to show for it. In fact, they helped arrest the suspects themselves. Check this out."

Opening his phone, Sam showed a scruffy-looking man being led away by at least ten paramarshals in full armor. "Yeah, don't see that every day. Whew!". I simply smiled-oh, I'd used the threat of the League coming in to scare suspects on more than one occasion, but didn't think of actually calling them in. _Maybe I can convince them the last two dead bookies were-nah, they'd never fall for that. _

There was the Fremont case, but the League was already on that, since it involved exactly the kind of crazed trainer-driven crime they were on the alert for after the Rustboro incident. I made a mental note to, if I encountered any League marshals working on that case, see how many had the graty Unova accents. _I know Asma got a leadership there after she became champion, so I'm wondering if the victim being a fan of her's affected anything._

As for the killer's favorite trainer, Red Tenner was one of those legendary people, shrouded in mystery. I knew Red vaguely, but the hype around him was still present. The greatest trainer, the man who won the championships of five regions in three years, the basis for the main character in those cartoons the League shows to office kids and foreigners-and the young man who disappeared. Everyone has theories why Red disappeared, and while he was sighted, no one was able to follow up on it.

I don't know why I didn't milk the League like Sam and the other detectives were trying to. Maybe it was because I knew it was a passing interest, and that I didn't want to get spoiled. Maybe it was because the League would move on before I got what I wanted ready. In any case, it was soon irrelevant. Quite irrelevant indeed. Because I wasn't the one milking the League. The League was soon milking me.

Ask yet again about the bookie murder the day of the Rustboro battle. Look around there to see if the killer left any cartridges or footprints. Switch the case from "basically unsolvable" to "totally unsolvable." Go in to my office, play tic-tac-toe and wait for a-flight of League marshals? And an administrator straight from Indigo? One of the Hoenn provincial chiefs?

"Mr. Tally?"

"Yes."

"You're the primary on the Fremont murder. This is important, because that murder is important. We finally got our first lead on Red in years. So, our investigations staff is preparing a unit from around the country, and we've assigned you to it.

We searched Raines' room and found several phone numbers, including one that was marked 'Red'. We called the number-and called it, and called it. Eventually we traced it to a garbage can near Ecruteak. Throwaway phone, you know about them."

Yes, I knew about them.

"We found the phone, examined it carefully, and found a working fingerprint. Ideal match for Red Tenner, courtesy of his League card. Massive flier and helicopter search-couldn't find him, although we did succeed in scaring a few poor innocent trainers. Doubt he was there, and he's certainly fled when the search began.

So, you'll report to Ever Grande tomorrow with the rest of the Hoenn members of the task force, and from there, await the handoff to Indigo."

"Demitya, I'm leaving on a pretty long trip. Don't know when I'll be back. It's a case-has to do with the League"

The housekeeper, looked a little confused. "Why?"

"Tracking a regional fugitive, someone going between areas. Criminals have province-hopped constantly. This guy's no different. Has to do with that fangirl murder. Anyway, here's the next two month's salaries in case I can't reach you before then."

As I packed the rest of my stuff, I had to admit I shared Demitya's reaction. Why indeed? What made Red so valuable that the League wanted to catch him? And why did he disappear in the first place?

I'd heard opposite ends of gossip, both trying to explain it. The low-end explanation was that Red was a fake from the start-that the League manipulated him as the ideal trainer, had all the leaders throw fights, and thus created an artificial legend. However, once they had a falling out, Red was a threat to the League if he tried to make his case. So he fled into the wilderness and was not seen again.

The high-end explanation was completely different. Red was indeed a true legend, a truly talented trainer, and a true young prodigy close in stature to Yalshande, the divine hero of the Hailasian people, like Demitya. By sixteen, Yalshande had commanded his first major battle. By twenty, he was invading. By twenty-five, he'd conquered the largest empire in the world. The League had panicked, thought Red was going to be this great threat, and targeted him. So he ran away, and fled for his life.

I didn't know whether Red was a phony or a would-be conqueror. I doubted he was either. A total fraud wouldn't have been able to successfully avoid detection for as long as Red had been, and the League could have dealt with him in his open journey if they thought he was a true "Yalshande" in waiting. Whatever Red was, it was my job to find him.

There was a fancy League helicopter waiting for me the next day, and I enjoyed a trip to the administrative part of Ever Grande island-the part that no ordinary trainer sees. Mainly because once you get past all the ridiculously shiny triumphal arches, kitschy Poke Balls and statues, and the latest architectural fads, you just see plain offices full of plain people, so there's no point.

In one of the offices, there were two faces I recognized from the Hoenn provincial police. Ok, I'd worked in the Slateport division essentially my whole career as a detective, and knew one of them as a patrol officer in that area (In-joke: How does a patrol officer make detective? When the supervisor sees that he or she can actually button the uniform properly.). The other I knew as a detective head of the port investigation unit, which has to be a job slightly more thankless than the legend of the Hailasian hero who had to clean out the filthiest stables in the world. Two others I didn't.

"Charlie?"

"Ah, Fred. Good to see you. Never thought I'd be back with you-thought I'd left everything about that shitpile behind."

Lilycove was basically everything Slateport wasn't, a romantic artsy paradise. Only the truly demented stay in the place with the second-highest murder rate in the League's domain (this is reported murders, mind you.), so I guess I must have been crazy. Charlie Bean apparently wasn't.

Next, Roger Martell. As he was a superior, I couldn't be quite as casual with him.

"Detective Fred-Tally?"

"Yes, sir."

"I remember you clearing that fisherman-smuggler case. You know, the one where he was sprawled on the deck."

Oh yes, that one. Of course, smuggling had nothing to do with his murder, because any real rival would have either made it quiet and hid the body until some trainer kid freaks out after his Poochyena finds the corpse and calls the police, or made it showy and public as a warning. Since the body wasn't hung from a traffic light, it couldn't be either. No, this was a personal revenge murder, so I kept interviewing relatives until the I finally found the person who did it.

"Yeah. Where'd you go to after Slateport?"

"Fortree."

Roger Martell must have been a glutton for punishment, since that meant going from Slateport to being the barbarian overseer in a literally wild community. That could have been why he got picked to be a part of this wild-Zangoose chase.

As it turned out, Martell was the leader. The other two were named Tommy McClellan and Jill Dell. Both were League marshals, unsurprising given that they were previously unrepresented. Once we were all introduced, Martell directed us to sit down.

"Good morning. We're here to find Red Tenner. Now, the phone wasn't the most important by itself. What was important-and why we finally have a chance-, is what the phone represents. Previously, we had figured that Red was completely isolated from the outside world-that he just made quick disguised trips to acquire supplies. Now we know that we were wrong. Red has indeed communicated with his fans.

This means, and sorting out the signal from noise will be very difficult, don't get me wrong-that we have a way to find him. There is a trail from them to him, and our cross-regional strategy is to find that trail.

This is not us sweeping patrol planes over the Ilex Forest because some kid saw a guy with a Pikachu. This is a legitimate way forward. We can do this. However, it will require much detailed investigation. Fortunately, I have faith in you, and so do the people in other regions. May we finally catch this elusive fellow."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

"So Jill's going to pose as a fangirl? A 36 year old marshal is going to pass for someone about half that age?"

"No, Jill's going to pose as a fangirl's mother, and when they come, we'll arrest the fangirls and charge them with conspiracy in the Fremont murder. If they sign over all their records, we let them go." McClellan, stroking his beard, made that claim.

"Where were you based out of?"

"Mauville."

"Let me tell you this is the dumbest idea ever, and that this can't be solved by marshal brute force. You know the trainer clubs?"

"Not really, except for shoving fans away from League events."

"Then you'd know that the Fremont case would be ridiculously more difficult if it had happened someplace other than an apartment building full of people who weren't in the club. We can get the more innocent fans, but they're not the ones who're going to reach Red in person-if any else are. Only other option I can think of is leverage the ones who get caught in unrelated crimes, but that could go wrong too."

_Like if we catch the fan of some leader or leader-to-be. _

Charlie smiled briefly. "Nah, I say Slateport is a dead end. We need someplace where they're more respectful and less tough. Getting put in a work camp for a week is something a Slater can do without a fuss-but do it to some Lilycove rich kid living off her father's eight-figure salary."

Martell interrupted. "But then we have her eight-figure defense lawyer, and other issues like maybe she's politically connected. We can't risk something like that. What we can do is start monitoring them, so I'm ordering as much surveillance as I can get."

I shuddered. _Surveillance? Sitting listening for 30,000 ohwowdidyouseehims in hopes that one of those is Red? _

"How do you know it's going to be out of Slateport?"

"Because it started here", was all Martell had to say to my question. "We're getting psychologists to see what kinds of people would most idolize Red, but until then we go from this trail."

"Major?"

"Yes, Detective Tally?"

"Can I do what I was going to do regarding the Fremont murder-try and talk to Lynn's friends? I mean, that's a personal issue, not some great League search effort with paramarshal helicopters hovering overhead."

"You can. Everyone else will be on basic surveillance."

That was a relief. Of course, getting to one of Fremont's best friends wasn't too hard. Just talk to her family-who knew all about the "stupid trainer fights", but nothing about who their daughter called, then talk to her friend. So rather than trying to scare her with armored goons, I figured I'd talk to her over lunch.

"Ms. Steele?"

"Look, Detective. I know Shelly shot Lynn."

"So do I. I'm asking if Shelly had ever told anyone about how Red and her talked in person."

"Oh, we all do that sometimes. But a lot of the time it's just gossip, silly bragging."

"Still, you know anyone else who claimed that they managed to call Red?"

"Oh, I think all of us have, at one point or another. Usually it's just some sort of secret-like 'I called this guy and he called Red and then I called him again and he said Red said thanks."

"Any idea who "this guy" is?"

"Wait, why is this about Red?"

"Because we have reliable information that Shelly's trying to find him too, so it's the best way to find her."

"Uh-ok. But yeah, most of it's crap. Sorry, that's all I know,"

"Anyone who said they spoke to him directly?"

"I don't know. Like I said, it's all gossip anyway."

"Tell Shelly that her sentence will be reduced to manslaughter if she turns herself in, and"-I said, passing her a card, "call the department if you can get anything more."

I knew she probably wouldn't, and the Meowth was out of the bag. If these girls were proper Slaters, they'd be in full lockdown after this. To a veteran, this was not unexpected in the slightest. After that, it was time to type a report and tell Martell what little I'd gained. Nothing save for the fact that contact with Red may be done through an intermediary.

The next day was spent driving around aimlessly, putting names on the board and following what Red fanatics we knew. One girl had her driver-yes, even the daughter of a struggling maintenance man at the shipyard can sometimes still afford a nice foreign driver, go in eight circles before she went home. Another just walked right up to the van and asked if the police could give her a ride to the candy store. What this said about the ability of the team to remain incognito was not good.

Then there was the wiretap, with a ton of non-pertinent information. There was a bit of swooning over another famed trainer coming to town, but nothing about Red. Then a bit about "my dad's in the Sea Marshals and he said that they're going to be putting all their new ships in this yard", which I knew not to be accurate, but still told us that one or two of these urchins might have had connection.

There were two "circles" of Red fans we'd identified as liking him more than the other trainers, and doing so consistently. Neither would break unless we arrested all of them, and if we did, they'd probably resist anyway. Maybe we could check their homes, but they knew we were coming and would have, save for the sloppiest of them, destroyed everything of importance. Furthermore, once we did so, Red would, if he had any knowledge of the events, never talk to anyone from Slateport again.

I tried to get the courage to tell Martell this, but got the feeling he already knew. One does not spend over a year as chief of the Port Investigators without knowing Slateport, and knowing how impossible it really is. Sure enough, he ordered surveillance to stop, but said he had a plan that might get them somewhere. "I have an idea."

The idea was simple. Recruit a moderate fan from across Hoenn as a confidential informant, and have her make calls to the circles of Red fans across the region. Then monitor the calls and see if someone slips. With luck, another trace of Red, or at least an intermediary, could be found.

As bad as it was, it sure beat what we'd been doing before.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

The fans were not hardened criminals, and it showed. Our informants were able to get to one of them, and while she couldn't wring any information out of the fan herself, that she got her to mention looking for Red was a line we could use to get a phone monitor up.

This of course meant sifting through a ton of junk without much to show for it. Our hands were tied further by Martell calling off personal surveillance-if they knew we were following them, they could switch phones. So it meant about two weeks of looking at gossip, hey-do-you-want-to-see-the-movie tonight (usually a foreign movie, since the League's aren't exactly know for being good), and then came the big day. The day we got our first message, which, in their attempts to keep it a secret, made it ridiculously obvious.

"YES!"

"Snrgfxf Ktzwyd Fqqjs Kfwwnjw Xywjjy."

"Prqgdb"

They'd been too clever for their own good. Using a literal cipher instead of a secret code phrase meant that A: we could track it easily, and B: Anything they sent would be immediately suspicious. The cipher had been a standard push-the-alphabet one, the exact number of letters changing depending on the day of the week the message was sent on. Anything more advanced would have been too hard to understand, and using it at all meant we were on them.

"40 Allen Farrier Street, Nimbasa, Monday."

"Call the marshals. We're on them."

"No. We need to track them. If we just arrest whoever, they won't have a chance of leading us to Red." "

So, me and Martell boarded a League transport to Castelia, and from there drove into Nimbasa. An uglier city you could not imagine. Castelia was a place of energy, business, and fusion, a thousand different cultures and a hundred different philosophies all mixed in one grand mosaic. Nimbasa was just a make-work project for the glass and concrete industries, a place where Castelians put all the stuff they didn't want in their own backyards.

Nothing was natural as we drove past one gaudy eyesore after another. We surveyed the location and sights of Farrier Street, and then turned into a lot where the Unova component of the investigative force was waiting.

Martell introduced me to several investigators, then got down to business.

"Starting tonight at 2100, I want a stakeout of 40 Farrier Street. We've got reports that a Slateport fan club member is going to deliver something to Red, and SIGINT stated it 'sometime on Monday.' Based on this imprecise data, we hope to find it. 40 Farrier is a Cream-Fairy store, open 24 hours."

Martell had gone in and bought some ice cream, saying that the place looked legit-it wasn't a dusty front. After that, it was back to the boring stakeout routine. Stay in a hotel nearby, then sit around doing very little for hours, before looking at a picture and seeing if it matched any of the people walking in.

While we were off-duty, more information confirmed that the Cream-Fairy franchise, one of a large chain of snack and ice-cream stores, did not match the profile of a suspicious business. Oh, it could be a front, but as it had been owned by the same person for decades, and as said person had no records of anything but minor offenses, this was doubtful. Just a meeting spot, probably since they'd been to Nimbasa before and-there.

I was asleep when it happened, but they saw it nonetheless. Girl with a backpack walks up to the store. Photo check revealed her as one of the Slateport fans, named Mary Allen. Allen buys ice cream, gives the backpack to another similar-aged girl, gets money, then leaves. Marshals follow the girl home, and get her name: Nancy Challenger.

Nancy Challenger then express-mails a package, and we're frantically contacting the League's postal service and getting a warrant to search her property. And that's when I woke up. I got briefed, then got a call from Charlie saying that their "surveillance" plan worked. Then grumpy me snapped back saying no shit it worked, now get me everything on Mary Allen to see if she was anything more than a convenient flunky.

Yes, we were so bad at staying hidden that our plan involved driving past the hangout, then conspicuously hanging out at one place to make sure there was an all-clear. Following Mary Allen would have just ruined the plan.

Obtaining the warrant for Nancy Challenger's home was pretty easy, and so was the questioning of her parents. "Oh our silly girl, always yapping about that super-kid Red."

"Anything unusual about her?"

"Well, her fan-club hangouts are the typical Mom, it's none of your business-talk, so we don't know anything about those. Kind of used him as an excuse for cutting short her journey, though. Said people pressured her into it because of her name, and that she'd never be as good as Red."

Nancy Challenger's room contained very little of immediate interest except for ten cell phones, all registered to other people. No wonder tapping them for responses proved a no-go. All of them belonged to her friends save for three she had purchased-under her own name-, given their lack of other contacts. Maybe if we dug through all of her papers we could find something related to Red beyond fangirlish fantasy, but that would take as long as contacting the postal service.

This was a waste, and it utterly jeopardized any hope of a slow-and-steady strategy.

"Sir, may I inquire?"

Martell answered quickly. "Ok, Fred."

"Did you order the search?"

"I didn't, because I have no jurisdiction here. You'd have to ask the Unova investigators."

"Do you think the immediate search was a good idea?"

"Don't know. I doubt Ms. Challenger is very high up on the ladder, and we need to move to get the package. This might be faster than slogging through the postal service bureaucracy."

"Is she still in school?"

"Yes, but she gets out in two hours."

"So she'll know very soon, if she doesn't already."

As it stood, there was a bus delay at Challenger's school, and even though I knew there was an armored van of marshals waiting outside, she was still delayed. We didn't have an arrest warrant unless she was an immediate flight risk (like Shelly Raines), but I hoped to lure her into questioning.

The marshal van followed her home, and soon before it would have arrived, I got a message from Jill Dell at Slateport.

"New outgoing txt: Rn zh xqghuvwdqg."

Tuesday, so "Ok we understand." Clear sign Challenger was no longer reliable, and once again they blew it by sending it in code. More importantly, the text wasn't received on any of her phones.

The bus stopped at Challenger's home, a young _man _walked off, and then it drove away. The van continued to chase the bus, even though I knew it was pointless. The radio squaked "Suspect loose. Repeat, suspect loose. White female, messy black hair, braces, last seen wearing a Nimbasa School 10 uniform. Repeat, all units are to be on the lookout for a white female…"

"Foxtrot," I said softly.

"See, this is why we can never find Giovanni. If schoolgirls can outwit us, imagine what the Rockets can do", Martell said while rolling his eyes.

"We need to be on the ball. Where's the Unova chief?"

The nominal head of the Unova investigation was a clear figurehead designed solely to relay orders and take the blame if something went wrong. We knew who the real person was behind the investigation, and she was busy battling an opponent. Afterwards, Asma Saqqaf came to see us

Clad in a regal outfit that seemed to fit the popular image of her ancestry, she emerged from the gym. Traces of her brown hair could be seen through her covered head, and a pair of marshals stood by her.

"So, what's up with the investigation?"

"Not much. We just lost a suspect. I need to ask you about this. Did you order the search?"

"In short, yes. But I'm busy", she said, as a car pulled up and she drove away.

About ten minutes later, I got another text.

"Dinner with you, to explain. I don't quite trust the Hoenn supervisor. AS."

"OK. Where?"

"7:20, Maison de Kalos."

The restaurant was one of the fanciest I'd been in, and to dine with a gym leader was something I'd had trouble with. Seeing Asma Saqqaf, not in her leader's outfit but normal, if somewhat fancy clothes, I went over to the table.

"So, hello, madam leader-"

"Oh, it's just Asma."

"Ok, Asma."

"So, yes, the investigation. Yes, I ordered the search. I ordered it because I felt we had to move fast, and we weren't losing much if Challenger got away. We wouldn't have gotten the warrant as quick as we did if it wasn't for me."

"With all due respect, you're a gym leader. What do you know about criminal investigation?"

She leaned slightly. "With all due respect, you're a detective. What do you know about politics?"

"Politics?", I said, after taking a bite of bread. "Law enforcement politics, which is why I'm not surprised the marshals dropped the ball."

They'd followed the bus all the way back to the garage, then questioned the aging, bitter driver for an hour. Nothing came of it except for an argument. This was not unexpected, for our suspect wouldn't have tried her escape if she didn't think it could could work.

"League politics? Promotions?"

"Nope." I smiled.

She gave a small smile back. "Ok. The reason why I think they're jumping on this Red case is because the League is going to elect a new commissioner in several months. Now, to make a long story short, making a commissioner is like making a sausage. You don't want to see what goes into it."

"Asma, I drag rotting corpses out of vacant buildings. Backstabbing doesn't faze me."

"Well, yeah. As a newly appointed leader with the public awe of a champion still near me, and with the tiny silver lining of the horrible death of my fan giving me a bit of sympathy, I got to basically pick the Unova investigators. I chose the least partisan ones. Got more respect because my predecessor was just a ditz shoved in to have a pretty face. Ugh, her outfits-I had stomp through..."

I quickly brought the subject back to the case. "Is that why you didn't invite Roger?"

"I feared that the Continuers would be too strong with the rest." She looked at me. "Continuers are the people in every election who support the previous commissioner. A lot of them are in the bureaucracy."

"Ma'am, I don't think Martell's a careerist. The guy's basically volunteered for the worst of the worst jobs-I think they, or at least the Hoenn branch wanted the best person. I think the worst you could get is simple geography."

"Well, I'll still keep him at a distance. As for here, there's been more than a few packages going through Nimbasa. My own fans tell me this much, and that the Red fans are swaggering. But we need more people, and I'm thinking-"

She paused to eat some food, then continued. "I'm thinking we can center the whole force in one spot at a time. And the spot now is Nimbasa."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5:

I'd introduced Asma to Martell, and while she was a little less edgy about him, she still distrusted the League higher-ups. Moving most of the investigative force to Nimbasa was a relief, especially for the Kanto crew. One of them was complaining that Indigo micromanaged everything.

Nancy Challenger was still on the loose, but her usefulness had declined once we finally succeeded in tracing the package-delivered by mail to a farm in the middle of nowhere. The package was nowhere to be found when we searched the property, there was no sign of outward mailings, and the "farmer" was an absentee owner from Saffron. Questioning him revealed that he'd only visited the farm a few times, and that after several years of losses, he'd halted actual farming and only sent people over to do an occasional cleanup. Furthermore, he'd only kept the land at all because prices might rise.

There were no traces of fingerprints or any useful physical evidence in the farmhouse. We set up a few automated cameras, but did nothing more than that-nor did we expect the cameras to last very long.

In the meantime, as we monitored gibbering fans and waited for Asma's informants to say more than just "They were talking about Red" (of course they were), I looked up the office of League Commissioner and tried to see who would be next in line.

Sometimes commissioners were former leaders or regional elites themselves. More often they were picked as administrators loyal to a certain faction of leaders or the previous commissioner. The current League Commissioner (who I'd heard the name of before, but not really thought much of) was Robert Clayton Ingersoll, or "Clay". The nomination process for commissioners was not exactly public knowledge, but inside sources said it was unlikely that Ingersoll's continuers would have much power at the convention.

One motive was obvious for the League ordering the investigation-Ingersoll wanted to capture Red so he could gain a high-profile victory sufficient to sway enough leaders to his side, and appoint his designated successor. But that ran into problems. Why bother going for the high-risk, questionable-reward strategy of capturing Red when there were more opportunities to make a public statement. I knew from personal experience that if Ingersoll wanted to make it seem like the League was doing something, he could have.

I looked back at Red's career and saw very little connection between him and Ingersoll that would symbolize a motive. Granted, in most cases, motive doesn't matter. You don't need to know the motive for why Suspect A grabbed a "target" pistol and emptied it into Victim B, you just need to know that it was him. But this was not an ordinary case. Ingersoll's sole contact with Red had been him sitting in the stands at Indigo during the battle with the Kanto Elite Four-and he just sat there and watched.

I was going to look and see if other League Marshals had ordered the search, or at least convinced Ingersoll, but that posed a problem. First, little information was available. Second, I knew that some branches-like the paramarshals-wouldn't have the drive to mastermind such a complex and risky operation. So it was just gossip and theory.

A week after the cameras, I made progress. Not on the search for Red, but on the search for Shelly Raines. After dinner with Asma, in which she told me about the latest League propaganda game with a main character based off of herself-alternately being smug that they'd chosen her and not a previous champion, and annoyed that they'd changed her name.

"Because Asma Saqqaf, of immigrants from the Turkic Republic, is too scary, we get-(sigh) Hilda."

"Hilda."

"Yes."

"Well-"

She seemed eager to change the topic. "I was looking through your cases, Fred."

"And?"

"My informants said that a "Shelly Raines" is coming to Nimbasa. She should be there by tomorrow night."

"Any idea where?"

"I'll try, but don't know where. For all we know, she'll be stuffed into an apartment and then bolt to the countryside."

"Tell the team to look for her. She's the best lead we have"

After dinner, I could barely sleep. The thought of finally making some more progress, and the feeling that once again, the League would fumble, made me sit up and pace nervously. We looked for Shelly Raines on the first day. I joined in myself. We couldn't find her. Then I slept a little, just because I was exhausted. Finally, we got a report for Raines herself at another fast-food store. Me and a marshal who fidgeted uncomfortably in his plainclothes guise rushed over, and we found a woman who matched her photo-albeit paler and skinnier, picking away at a small salad.

Uniformed marshals arrived a few minutes later. She did not resist in the slightest.

Now came the questioning. Unlike the typical Slateport-type, she was exhausted.

"Ms. Raines, you have at least ten witnesses. I called and all ten reaffirmed that it was you. You could have gotten off with manslaughter and weapons possession if you turned yourself in. Now, you're looking at murder-best case scenario's a decade in hard labor."

"Just get it the fuck over with. I killed her-you got me. You can shoot me in the head right now."

"There's still a way out. You're the best lead we have on this case-concerning Red."

"R-Red?" Suddenly her eyes lit up. "What about him? Are you going-to-kill him?"

I didn't know what the League was planning to do if they found Red. "No."

"In fact, it's for his own safety."

"We can give you a manslaughter and suspend most of your sentence if you tell us everything about Red. Why were you contacting him?"

"Because he's my boyfriend, why not? And not just a fantasy one-a real one."

"And do you still have his number?"

"Yes. Even though he changes it constantly, he keeps sending me the new ones. But how do I know you're not just gonna blow him up? Because he doesn't like the League one bit, and that's why he ran away."

"How?"

"Well…"-she coughed and yawned.

"Want a drink of something?"

"Sure, Zap-Soda."

Poor girl was exhausted. I quickly told everyone else about the major discovery before grabbing her a can of the notoriously high-caffeine drink from the vending machine. Then it was back to me and her.

"So why did he run away?"

"Because he saw the 'Trainer's Journey' to be a sham and nothing like the real trainer's journey. The League just rams a bunch of kids through semi-staged to really staged events to keep them busy. Red liked the journey, the capturing, and didn't like what this fake journey had become. The League offered him a leadership-he said no. All he wanted was to truly live-and as he's said before, die, as a trainer, like the ones far back in the day were, when it wasn't a-a commercial scam."

"And Red-he told me-and told me in person-too, not just over the phone, that the League's afraid of him. Because-they can't buy him off with anything, and because everyone loves him, that if he's given the chance to talk, tell them about the real journey, they'll follow him-they'll upset the stupid checked-balance Indigo's put up, and so that's why he sometimes thinks the League will just kill him, or at least lock him up-because he's such a threat."

"But couldn't he just flee and speak out against the League from another country?"

"Well-he loves the journey too much. As much as he hates the League, he loves the journey. To just rant against them-is not what he wants. And I wished I could be with him-but-it'd be too much. No one else could handle the stress. But I love him-and I just don't trust the League either."

She gulped down the last of the soda.

"I'd need Ingersoll's own word-I think I deserve to just go to life since I killed her-and I-no!"

Maybe she could change, but right now she was incoherently resistant. The marshals took her to a cell. I went back to the office-and found Asma herself there, along with almost all the investigators, and the head of the Unova Provincial Police-and a guy in a paramarshal uniform.

"We have someone good at mimicking voices, and as many patrol planes with SIGINT gear as we could get airborne. Yep, we're going to use-"the paramarshal said, as he held up Shelly's phone-"This little baby to see if we can get him."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6:

A female mimic appeared, with a voice startlingly similar to Shelly Raines.

"Ok, we've got about five minutes of call at most, probably more like thirty seconds. Thankfully, we have our entire SIGINT fleet, every network, and as many foreign satellites as we could 'borrow.' Let's do this."

The mimic dialed Red's number in another room.

"Hello?"

"Hi Shelly. How's Nimbasa?"

"Oh, it's good. I mean, it's hard being cooped up, but I don't want to go outside either."

"Relax. This is the League we're talking about. You'd probably be fine in Mauville."

Actually, she wouldn't have been. The police friction cut across regional lines, not city ones. Catching fugitives from Slateport was routine for Mauville officers and marshals. This gave me a tiny bit more confidence in our ability to catch Red.

"Well, uh-how've you been?"

"Good.I'm really liking those cookies Mary sent me. Except they're a little dry-in fact, I'm going to go get something to drink. So yeah, hopefully I'll call you back. Love ya, Shelly. Bye."

"31 seconds. Best we could narrow it down to was the big tower near Goldenrod, and he could hide in the Ilex Forest for years."

Asma bit her lip. "Quietly-and I mean quietly-move some marshals there. But nothing too prominent, since he'll just run if he finds out. Maybe we'll run into him. And tap the phone."

The paramarshal commander, in the organization's red and white uniform that was meant to look like "camouflage" even though it didn't really camouflage anything, agreed, then went off to issue more orders.

As soon as he'd left, Asma leaned over. "Can you imagine what they'd do if they actually found him?"

I gulped. This would be either sloppy, bloody, or both. Imagining paramarshals doing a combat insertion into the huge park near Goldenrod, or for that matter, Goldenrod itself was not pretty. The phone might have worked, but a better path to Red was sitting inside the cell.

"Asma, I want you to come with me."

"Probably not. I mean, it was an argument with one of my fans that prompted the murder in the first place."

She had a point.

Shelly Raines was sleeping, and I didn't want to wake her up. The mimic had left-they were planning on trying again the next day. I went back to my hotel and slept there, and wondered if this was our only opportunity to catch Red or just the first.

The next day, I found that there were four conversations between Red and someone else. One was flirting with another fangirl (something I could use as leverage, though I suspected Shelly Raines had few illusions), two were package deliveries we noted, and one was interesting. From Blackthorn, it was a man pleading with Red, and him refusing. The accent-a very thick version of the mountain dragon clans, by someone who was obviously not a native speaker of League English-gave it away more than the location-the Blackthorn Pokemon Center.

I told this to Asma at lunch, and her eyes opened, then smiled.

"So that's the reason. Figures. Really obvious."

"How?"

"The dragon clans played a huge role in the foundation of the League to begin with, and they have a lot of power, but they don't win all the time. They didn't win with Ingersoll, and everyone knows they're already lobbying like crazy to make sure that doesn't happen now."

I smiled back.

"So if Red's on their side, they have Red on their side. If Red isn't on their side, they can say 'unlike those lazy hacks, we mountain dragon clans can catch him. Win-win for them. And if the League messes up, they can either blame Ingersoll or the subordinates."

"Well, Fred, no wonder you're a detective."

"This is just how you think after a while. You see two shots, you know preplanned. You see eight shots, you know spontaneous"

Asma looked back.

"And if they'd gotten a clear lock on Red, they'd have either paramarshals blasting away with rockets or clumsily roping down. So in some ways they're glad they didn't catch him."

"Exactly."

"I've never been impressed with the paramarshals myself. I mean, they're basically human missiles-good for destroying a target, but they have to have the target pointed out. Not one of them is good for something they aren't told to do. So they do absolutely everything by routine."

"Yep, know that all too well."

"In fact-I-ah."

Asma's phone rang, and she was off to the gym to fight more trainers. I pondered what the dragon clans meant-I knew of absolutely no cases involving them, and by the looks of it, they were another organization whose members simply could not be broken.

I slept again, since I didn't know when I'd get the chance. When I woke up, I'd found that Shelly Raines had woken up, and, after an extremely clumsy attempt at suicide, had been moved to a more secure cell. The judge had refused bail almost immediately afterward, though even if it had been set low, I knew she was too drained to consider escaping. Another call-this one to our own Mary Allen asking for soft drinks, came from Red's phone, but it was still too close to the tower to pick out.

"Charlie, Jill, Mary Allen also has a direct link to Red. Get ready to follow her phone as well."

So much to do in so little time. Or so I thought.

Tapping Allen's phone was easy. Following her would be hard, unless she tried Nimbasa again. Either the Slateport doofuses they already knew would follow her, or someone with a thick Unova accent would try to blend in. Neither was likely to work. All I got was one of our informants telling me that she saw Mary Allen viewing a contest, which made me wonder how many bookies would get killed after it.

But the phone was plenty. For one, it told me a lot about them. Allen liked Red, but didn't seem as lovey-dovey as Shelly Raines or some of his other girlfriends. But also, Allen kept shushing him, and seemed annoyed when telling him about anything important. While her code-making skills left something to be desired (they'd made a new cipher, this time subtracting from 26 rather than adding from 1 depending on the week, but the new was just as easy to break as the old had been), her phone discipline matched that of the worst Slateport criminals.

Martell shook his head.

"Weird, Ms. Delinquent seems smarter than Mr. Hide-Away."

"Well, he thought you'd be safe from the Slateport police in Mauville, which shows what he knows about Hoenn law enforcement."

"But that's the thing. I know a tight criminal. Red isn't. Everyone knows it's the provinces, not the cities that have trouble coordinating. Everyone knows how to speak effectively on the phone. But this legend, this person who's been hidden for years, doesn't?"

I shrugged.

"Maybe he just doesn't get technology-I dunno."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7:

I sat in the helicopter en route to Hoenn, next to a stern-faced marshal. Across from me sat Shelly Raines, looking more worn-out than ever, sipping another energy drink. We landed near the provincial police headquarters, and several more marshals walked her out.

Any other day of my life, this would be a good time. Catching an ever-elusive flyer, and watching yet another clearance be added to your total, a silver bullet that makes up for all the unsolvable contest-profiteers and riffraff you'd found. But now, it just seemed small.

While Raines was being processed and formally charged, I talked with Jill about Mary Allen. The revenue department was examining her family finances to see if there was any outside income that would indicate her making more money than a lower-working class family (read-only one servant) would have. I said that was a stupid idea. One flaw was unavoidable-it would take months, probably not revealing anything until after the commissioner's election . But another was that this wasn't profit-driven smuggling. (Yet another is that the League revenue department can easily fall for the most blatant money laundering, but that's another story).

She just shrugged. "We can chew gum and walk at the same time."

"But is she doing anything illegal?"

"We'll see."

From there, I finally got to spend a night in my real house. After a very good sleep, I woke up, phoned Asma, and asked her if I could go to Goldenrod, just by myself, since anything more would be suspicious on Red's part.

She (and her nominal marshal commander) approved, and off I went.

Goldenrod was a pleasant city, one not immune to the League's building excesses, but certainly much more natural than the glitzy ugly mess that was Nimbasa. The buildings, including the gym, were more sedate.

As I went inside to talk to Whitney, I saw someone-else there. Someone far more important.

"Ko-ga?"

The Elite smiled at me. "Yes, detective?"

"Well-uh-hello, sir?"

"Hello detective."

Koga shook my hand, and introduced the Goldenrod leader, who was almost as nervous as I was.

"So, you two-how much do you know about Red's motivations?"

Whitney spoke first. "Nothing. Just that he ran away."

"I only know what his girlfriend told me. That he saw the trainer's journey had devolved into a sham, turned down a leadership, and disappeared into the wilderness to live as a real trainer, not the fake kind the League promoted."

Koga's smile turned sharp. "That's partially true. I fought Red as a leader, and I was promoted shortly after he became champion. Red obviously disappeared, and did turn down a leadership-but out of ego.

Red became champion, defeating John "Blue" Oak."

"Yes."

"And he wanted the Viridian Gym leadership. We said he couldn't have it, but he could have his pick of at least five gyms. Giving it to Blue was an insult to him-after all, why should this losing trainer get the prize. Red was just too naive-he thought that battling was the only thing that mattered, and when we tried to explain there was more to being a leader than just that, he brushed us off.

So then I think he-pushed himself too far, and just withdrew from society. The League tried to reach him, but he had enough of us. Unfortunately, we don't have enough of him."

"Now, Shelly said that the League is-afraid of Red, because he could reveal the true journey back to the people, and the League wouldn't counter it."

"Nonsense. No one wants to relieve the "True Journey". There's nothing in it for a trainer to risk their life without a reward. No Pokemon Centers and hand-carved capsules-does anyone really want that? I think not. Red would just become a delusional raver if he appeared, and he knows it. Better to hide out, be a mystical hero rather than someone whose skills have probably been wasted because he hid rather than battled."

I didn't want to push Koga, but I had to ask-had to.

"But why are we looking for Red anyway, if he's not as good as his legend."

"Politics. Being the person who catches Red-and brings him to their side-is a prize. Many leaders don't know the truth about him. I need all the help I can get, as the dragon clans are determined to get the commissioner's chair back."

Whitney spoke up. "Yes, Koga's standing for commissioner. If he wins, he'll offer Red the Viridian leadership again, promote Blue to fill his spot, and that will be that. No doubt the dragons are trying to offer the same thing."

"Well, good luck." _I don't think that would work. _

We talked about what to do, and I left the gym.

Then I left the city. First stop was to the north, in the huge park. I had to crack a smile at what I saw-a beautiful park, with almost all of the current inhabitants being foreign workers relaxing after a long week of work, with an ugly stadium looming to the west. Nothing could better sum up the place I lived in.

The park experience might have been just a diversion, if it wasn't for a small burst of conversation I heard. I knew a few words of the languages spoken around Slateport, but I could tell different types of languages-and this, spoken by three people on a bench, was different from any I'd heard before. I dared to guess that I wasn't the only investigator here looking for Red.

My suspicions were confirmed when I had dinner. Deliberately choosing a deli across the street from the gym, I slowly munched on a sandwich and fries while conducting an informal one-man stakeout. Sure enough, I saw an armored car pull up to the gym and a tall, statuesque woman in a long cape step out and walk in.

Yep, that was Blackthorn leader Clair Daniels. Two guesses why she was there. This commissioner's election must be close indeed. With my phone camera I took an innocent picture of the guy standing in front of the gym door, but that was it. About two hours later, she left the gym, the doorman and her got back in the car, and it drove away.

I quickly checked in to one of the many hotels, and woke up the next morning feeling surprisingly well.

Oh yes, Mary Allen switched phones, and Red did too. Under normal circumstances, this would have brought down the case, but we still had Raines' phone, and Red had texted her his new number. Still originating in the Goldenrod area.

My next travel was to the south, where I saw, near the day-care, another group of "picnickers" sitting by the Ilex Forest gatehouse. As if Red would be dumb enough to go through there directly. At first, it just looked like they would sit and pretend to eat their berry muffins.

Then five police cars rolled up to them, and a group of marshals stormed out. I cautiously listened, but knew what was going on when I heard the word "ID". The men showed their trainer cards, the marshals apologized, and that was that.

What could I do? Moving the investigation to Goldenrod would just make Red flee, if he hadn't already. What I had to do was hope that either he or his fans would reveal their hand-and then hope that the proper League authorities could get there before Clair did.

This was a lot of stuff to hope for. Fortunately, I had a plan. I explained the plan to Asma along the way and she smiled in return. First step was going all the way to Mahogany, which, even though I'd thought of it beforehand, Asma said was an especially good choice. Second step was finding the small fan club and its inevitable Red admirers. Third step was-making the call. Although it took a few days to accomplish, I smiled when the plan was set in motion.

We kept the people on Red and Mary Allen's phones-which revealed nothing important. But our most prominent investigators went to this tiny mountain town. We had bald, thuggish officers with the thickest Unova accents harass fangirls. Martell and the Unova "commander" commandeered the local police station. We sent patrols all the way up to the Lake of Rage and back down again.

And then I quietly moved back down to Goldenrod.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8:

Asma was shocked when I suggested Mahogany. I asked her if it was-as far as I was concerned, it was just a place far away from Goldenrod. She laughed and said it was actually the best location possible, because of its political significance.

That Mahogany's gym trainers commanded ice types was no coincidence. From the founding of the League, the gym had been a supposed bastion against the dragon clans to the north and east, full of trainers who could exploit their weakness. Generations of Mahogany leaders had never voted for a dragon-backed commissioner. Thus moving the League to the "frontier" was bound to provoke a reaction.

And it did. More than a few people with mountain accents, if not entirely different languages, appeared in the area. One marshal in Blackthorn reported that he saw open-backed trucks with tarps over them moving from garages into the wilderness-I doubted they were carrying cans of soda. The whole thing was becoming a circus, and Asma assured me that in the halls of the League, the circus was even bigger.

And, most importantly, it had an effect on Red. I'd theorized that such a feint would make him stay near Goldenrod, and sure enough, he was bragging to another one of his followers that the League "doesn't know shit where I've been".

Mary Allen had sent him more luxuries, although we didn't succeed in tracking them. That was fortunate, for if we had, that would've just tipped Red off. No, we needed to find him, not his layers of couriers. The weakest link was, surprisingly, the suspect himself. The smugglers had apparently switched phones every day, but it was no use since Red kept the same one. Of course, he might not have been able to keep too many phones. But that didn't excuse everything else he tried.

Then we finally caught our break. Mary Allen was going to Nimbasa again, and she was going to be delivering another package. Cue Asma lending me a League helicopter to rush me there, and another tense stakeout. After Allen had left, we arrested the courier.

Her name was Maureen Heerman. An innocent-looking schoolgirl, although maybe not so innocent-we had several arrest records for graffiti tagging on file. In the package was not very much. Seltzers, instant meals, and a pair of shoes.

Heerman was moved to the interrogation room. Now was the time. If she was a serious criminal, she would say nothing. But she clearly wasn't.

"Hello, Ms. Heerman."

"Hello-detective."

"Why am I even here in this fucking place? I've done nothing illegal. Nothing. All it has is food-"

"Food destined for an indicted criminal. Red Tenner has a court summons and indictment. That means you're guilty of criminal conspiracy already."

"But it's not going for him-it's going just to someone I'd met on a trip."

"And of course, lying means you get changed from juvenile probation to adult prison. Yes, prison. See if the judge accepts 'oh, it's just someone' else, after they see your Red poetry."

"Really?"

"Really, Ms. Heerman."

"But it's just food."

"Doesn't matter. If there's a Rocket hideout in the mountains, will the paramarshals let you off if they say 'it's just food'?"

"Red's not a-"

"Red's not a what?"

She sat there, with her eyes blanked, thinking of a way out. There was one, but she'd already blown her cover. For about thirty minutes, she just remained. Then she spoke again.

"Is there anything I can do to-you know, get less time? Is there?"

"Sure, just tell us absolutely everything about how Red gets his packages. Everything, in as much detail as possible. We already know about Mary Allen, so tell us more."

"Ok, I don't know much-I honestly don't. Basically, Mary comes over to me with the package, an address, and money. I get paid, mail the package, and then call her back and say "All good." I know the address, but that's it. I know Red gets it eventually, but I don't know anything. Really."

We'd looked up the address and found it to be another largely-abandoned farm, this one in Kanto near Celadon.

"Ok, first thing you can do is call her back and say 'All good.' But if you scream or do anything else, your guilt isn't in doubt."

I handed her back the phone. "Make the call."

There was a tap several rooms down listening to it live.

"Hello-Mary? Yeah, it's all good. Talk to you later, hope you have a good day."

The voice was shaky but still doable.

We mailed the package, keeping an eye out. So many things could go wrong. Mary Allen wouldn't fall for the ruse-except she did, telling Red that his package was on the way, and even mentioning the shoes. We moved a patrol plane and some cameras to the farmhouse. A man in a car came by each day, and when it finally arrived, he released a Xatu, which picked up the box in its claws and flew away.

Thankfully, the plane could track it. As smart as they are (and no, they can't really see into the future-they're just really good at reading cues with the help of psychic powers), they didn't understand the context of having a large flying vehicle close to them. The Pokemon landed in the yard of a family called the Weinman's.

Mark Weinman was a psychic who'd worked in the Saffron City gym-whether this meant that Sabrina had something to do with it or if it was just a psychic community thing wasn't much. I didn't think he had that much of a tie to gym leader politics, as the fleet of patrol craft buzzing Saffron would have been shooed away by her if she had any vested interest in keeping Red hidden.

Weinman took the train to-Goldenrod. I was there, following him from the station. I had taken a drink of suppressant juice to be sure, but I'd dealt with a few psychics in Slateport without any. All but the most powerful can't really tell the difference between one alarm and another, so I was pretty safe.

Weinman still looked around, paranoid. Walking north to Route 35, he constantly sprayed can after can of Max Repel. Then he put the package down, attached a small transmitter, and phoned-Red?.

"X marks the spot, Romeo Echo Delta."

We waited. And waited. More League patrol planes buzzed overhead, but the clouds meant that they'd have to dip to a level where Red could see them if they could see him. The Poocheyana and Ponyta show in Mahogany had grinded to a halt-Martell and the others were just as focused.

I myself sat near the gatehouse, not going near the big park. Crowds passed me by, but not enough. Someone with a Pokegear and another small gadget was moving into the grass.

"Ok, Ok, Ok."

Moving to the top of the gatehouse, I followed him with a pair of binoculars borrowed from a local officer. After leaving the road, he relased a-Pikachu?"

My breathing was getting heavier. A SIGINT plane radioed me and said that they too were picking up the transmission from the package. As the trainer came closer and closer to the package, I heard that a paramarshal flight was taking off. Then the transmission stopped, and the whole force dove down.

I didn't see any of it in person. But I watched the review footage later.

One of the helicopters fired a very unusual missile. Instead of an explosive warhead, it contained a Master Ball. The missile swooped in and hit the Pikachu, trapping it. The trainer dove down as more helicopters turned on lights and circled him. Out of a transport dropped a few paramarshals in full red-and-white gear, rifles at the ready. The trainer looked at them, but still surrendered. Handcuffed, he was yanked into the transport and flown back to their headquarters.

Once there, he was fingerprinted. They matched Red's. There were a handful of trainer cards, but one of them said Red Tenner. The photo of him snapped by the marshals was of a still-young man with unruly brown hair and an unevenly shaved set of facial hair.

Martell excitedly called me.

"We did it!"

I replied, trying to be more upbeat. "Yeah, we did it. We sure did."

"Fred, you seem kind of down."

"I'm pretty sure it's just the adrenaline wearing off now that we have him."

"Ok. Well, take care."

Then I hung up and sat down. For having caught the most elusive trainer, I sure didn't feel like it. This was what detectives lived for-the thrill of the chase, of finally bagging their prey. Once the trap was sprung, you left. You appeared in court, sure, but for the most part you were done.

Maybe it was because Red wasn't a full-blown criminal. The only crime I knew he committed was having other people's trainer cards, and if that was rigorously enforced, you'd have to arrest a third of Slateport for borrowing cards to buy drinks or gamble. Red hadn't stolen anything (if he had, the League, for all its secrecy, would have told us about it), and he certainly hadn't killed anyone.

I decided to call Asma and see what she thought, to try and get my mind off of it.

"Asma?"

"Fred, nice job. Almost too nice, that standoff was getting a little out of hand."

"Was it?"

"Ingersoll was personally diverting every flyable plane within range of Blackthorn and the dragon mountains to the Red operation-so that's why you suddenly got all those assets. Didn't want any 'accidental crashes' followed by 'mineshaft failures'."

She paused, then continued on.

"Hopefully the actual election will resolve things, although I'm suspect that it will. Don't worry, I'll keep you posted."

"Thanks, Asma."

From that point on, I tried to involve myself in wrapping up as many loose ends as possible. We arrested Mary Allen and six other fans on various facilitation charges. Mark Weinman was taken in for questioning, although all of us knew that Sabrina wouldn't let anything stick. Sure enough, he was light on specifics but heavy on the details about Red-while at the gym, he was one who Red had battled, and from that point on was impressed. Weinman's girlfriend's sister had introduced him to the fan club, and they trusted him as the final deliveryman out of a naive belief that his psychic abilities would make him the most prominent.

I still felt uneasy. For most cases, motive meant nothing. For this, motive meant everything. And what were the motives of both Red and the people hunting him?


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9:

Getting to Red was difficult. For one, he was moved constantly, from a jail cell in Goldenrod to a jail cell in Indigo-to, according to Asma's statements, a form of house arrest in a cottage on Battle Island. For another, the detail had been formally disbanded, and I had to go back to my day job. The brief flashes of near-unlimited technology were gone, and it was back to ordinary detective work.

Back to looking at dead bodies with no evidence control except an overworked lab. Back to unsolveable murders where the only evidence is the body of a guy with an overwhelming criminal to sighing as a machine-gunning in a crowded apartment occurs, and everyone in the apartment says they saw nothing. Back to gazing at contests and hoping the favorite wins so that the bookie doesn't get murdered.

I tried to ignore Red, ignore the commissioner's election, but that wasn't to be. My eyes were just opened, and the shell of constant low-grade work was just broken. My conversations with Asma grew longer and more fulfilling.

The jockeying for the commissioner's post prior to the formal meeting was, in her words, "two Magikarps flopping around". Ingersoll was promoting one of his deputies as a successor-extremely halfheartedly. The old commissioner had very few continuers, and he was grooming a potential successor simply because that was what incumbent commissioners were supposed to do. Asma doubted that the "continuer choice" would make it any farther than the second ballot.

The dragon clans, for their matter, had chosen a bland, unassuming bureaucrat named John Marist. Absolutely nothing about him was inspiring or thought-provoking. Not only was he just the supervisor of a "wind-turbine district", he even looked like a stereotypical paper-pusher. Marist would have been hard-pressed to get even a promotion to head of a larger wind-turbine district-

-if Koga hadn't presented such an obvious vulnerability. The campaign was obviously based more around personal relationships with the other leaders than around any sort of power struggle, and the dragon clans were going all-out to denounce him as a would-be warlord, a beast who'd poison them (not only figuratively) with his Pokemon, not the type of person suited to a civilized commissioner. If Koga raised his voice at all, the dragon-tamers surrounding Marist would just go "see-a warlord!"

Five days before the powers that be officially met to decide the next commissioner, I got the chance to meet Red at last. Me and Asma went to Snowpoint, Sinnoh, so she could meet with a leader, and then from there to Battle Island. On the way, she told me the rules-Red was under a form of house arrest, but gym leaders would be allowed to meet him prior to the election. They could and did bring other people along, and that was the only way I could be allowed to talk to him.

The house Red lived in was a well-painted cottage that belonged to a now-retired leader. A paramarshal at the front gate ushered us in, and we saw the house was as luxurious on the inside as it was on the outside. Red, considerably better-shaven and dressed from the time of his arrest, was sitting at the counter munching on a sandwich.

When Red saw Asma, he groaned. "I'm telling you, I'm not backing either Mr. Poison or Mr. Windmill for the-"

"I'm not asking for any endorsements. I just brought someone else to talk to you."

Red softened slightly, and I introduced myself.

"So why did you run away?"

"Well, detective, a few."

"Did not getting the Viridian leadership have anything to with it?"

"Sort of. See, I thought that battling was all that mattered, and that I deserved a gym right next to my hometown-and Indigo. I learned that it didn't."

"But it didn't make you run away?"

"Not by itself. In fact, if I'd gotten that, or been more willing to take a lesser gym, I'd probably have fled a few months later. No more than a year at most."

"Because?"

"Because I'd fall from grace, and the only way to prevent that would be to disappear into the wilderness and do the journey the way it was intended to. You hunt, you seek, you don't just robotically march from gym to gym. If I was to be a professional trainer and fight in tournaments, it's only a matter of time before I lose. If I'm a leader, then I have to lose at some point-that goes with the title. Just living this way means I can be a winner, not a loser. A perpetual winner."

Red smiled widely. "And given that you had to yank the whole League away to get me, I won there."

I looked back at him. "You sure? We could still lock you up."

"Positive, Mr. Detective. There's just enough public opinion left in the League to have an outcry over locking me up and throwing away the key. They won't do that, at least not until after the election. And yeah-they can try to get me, but you'd have to be lucky again-and again."

"Well-do you like it here, at least?"

"No. I can't wait to be back in the wild. That's the thing, and why I just laughed at Koga offering me the leadership again. Do I want to have to throw matches and gossip about how to get my share of the mining and oil money? No. I want to be a real trainer."

"A real trainer, huh?"

"Yep. Because you'll need real trainers when the League's fantasy-land falls down. And it will, much sooner than you think."

"How do you know?"

"How can you and the other Mareeple not know? Huh?! You think we can always have a free lunch? You think you can run a country with a charter meant for a tiny group of clans centuries ago?"

With that, he finished his sandwich and walked back to the bedroom. I knew the time wasn't right to press him. The trip back was awkward. "Was he like that with the other leaders?"

"Mostly. Sometimes he just tricked them into giving him money."

The time before the electoral convention passed uneventfully-unless you count another contest bookie dying as eventful. I couldn't hear much about what happened in it as it occurred, even though Asma explained the rules-gym leaders and Elites vote on a commissioner, Elites have more votes, winner has to have a supermajority.

As predicted, Ingersoll's continuer stumbled, and the Koga-Marist campaign continued for ten ballots. Enough votes were rammed behind the poor wind-turbine manager to get him in the commissioner's chair, decisively. Koga's strategy had backfired completely-the leaders who he'd thought would pick him over a power technician instead feared such a backlash that they'd abandoned him, with only the stubborn anti-dragon holdouts remaining. Even the other three members of the K/J Elites voted against their comrade.

The charges against Red were dropped, and he was allowed to leave soon after Marist took office. Then there came the ramifications for us-Martell got to lead the entire Hoenn Provincial Police, and I got a promotion to detective sergeant, meaning that in place of me personally looking at bodies, I got to crack the whip at fellow detectives. This job was not satisfactory. For all the other detectives I knew, I'd stopped being their fellow and started being their nagging boss, and all the horrors of it remained.

Martell came down to Slateport. Formally, it was a spit and polish inspection. Informally, he invited me to dinner.

"After all the shit we pulled, I thought the dragons would kick us out. Instead, look at what we got. Guess they wanted Red after all."

"Yeah, I guess they did."

"By the way, Roger?"

"Yes?"

"I'm leaving the force pretty soon."

"Why?"

"Because first of all, being a detective sergeant is a lot worse than being a detective-all the work and then some. Second of all, I think this whole crazy Red experience just opened my eyes-the world's a lot bigger than just stupid murders."

"Ah yes, the Slateport burnout. Guess Mr. Tenner accelerated it."

"Sure did."

Martell dared to ask me where I would be going. I answered cryptically "To a place with connections." I think he knew where. Two months later, I was at Nimbasa, serving as assistant security director at the Battle Subway. The job itself was dull, but dull beat dull and violent. Asma and I talked from time to time, with me occasionally asking about League politics, and she asking about my job.

Eventually, our talks turned to Red. The shift in conversation started with just me idly mentioning that the Battle Subway was just the kind of thing Red hated about the modern League, and she responded. "Of course-we do build a lot of stuff to keep the trainers busy."

"But how sincere do you think he was?"

"Well-he could've made a difference as leader by just refusing any shiny gadgets in his city. There've been leaders who've just kept their gyms and cities nice and quiet. Doesn't do any good to just run away and then complain."

"Well, what if he was just made to wander?"

"If he was made to wander, he'd never have challenged all the gyms in the first place."

"Yes, but what he decided that challenging them was part of wandering…"

The conversation trailed on and on until I tried to change the subject to something besides just another discussion about his personality.

"What did the League think of Red when they got him?"

"Relieved. They saw he wasn't a a would-be warlord, and how little interest he had in being a power-broker. Some fell for his own legend and saw him as either this phantom who could elude anyone or a guerilla leader who could snap his fingers and trigger a crushing uprising. What they got was just someone who liked to travel and be a traditional old-style trainer, without all the bells and whistles of their additions, and someone who wasn't a mastermind by any means."

"So their eyes were opened too?"

"Yes, I'm sure they were."

"Well, that goes to show that this was a learning experience for us all."

"Sure was."

After that, I had to get back to work, so we said our goodbyes and she hung up.

-FIN-


End file.
